Sins of the Past
by Nrrrd-Grrrl-Meg
Summary: A case from Bannon's past comes back to haunt him.
1. Prologue pt 1

**Sins of the Past**

"_The past is never where you left it." - Katherine Anne Porter_

**Prologue**

_**The Past Returns**_

**Location: **Scenic Overlook, Williamsport, Pennsylvania.

**Date: **April 29th.

**Time: **Sometime around midnight.

"Donovan, these are the kids that found him."

The elder of the two detectives, Peter Donovan, exhaled heavily, running his thick fingers through his salt and pepper hair. His dark eyes spied the teenage couple shaking behind his partner; the girl sobbing openly, while her boyfriend looked like he would break into a million pieces if you breathed on him too hard. If he was a decent man, he would have hugged them, let them know they aren't responsible for what happened, for what they discovered. However, he's not a decent man, not by a long shot. He's a flawed man doing a flawed job.

"I swear...we...we di-didn't do-" the boy cuts himself off, dissolving into a fit of hiccups. "Don...don't arrest me!"

"You didn't do this, kid, get yourself together," Donovan sighed, placing a strong hand on the boy's shoulder. "What's your name?"

"The...Theon," he stammered, wiping snot from his face. "Theon Gallows. And this here is Rachael Jenkins, my girlfriend."

"Just let it out, Theon," he commanded, gripping his shoulder, showing the boy a kindness he rarely gifts to anyone. "What happened?"

The boy hiccuped again, his body quaking. "You...you won't tell my dad, will you?"

This time, it's the girl that pipes up. "Screw your dad, that guys is dead! We were just pulling in here to see the view and because we thought no one was around, we...we were gonna-"

"I was gonna use a condom!" Theon defends himself, causing the detective to chuckle slightly. "But then we saw some weird dude over at the bench, staring at us. So, I yelled at him and when he didn't respond, I went over to see what his problem was. That's when I realized he was just staring and he was dead. I didn't notice the bullet in between his eyes until it was too late."

Donovan nods, seeing that he story seems to add up with the evidence left behind. The boy shoved the body, that much was certain, but he was already dead when they got here and had been so for at least a few hours. _Same as the four others before it,_ he thought to himself, inhaling heavily. Each one inching further and further up the East Coast, all former members of the task force put together to bring down-

No. Even now he refused to speak his name, he wouldn't give that sick bastard the satisfaction.

When he took the demotion to small town detective, he thought he was done with the international cases and the devastation the left in their wake. His marriage dissolved, the ex took their son and moved across the country, and all he had was his little job and a condo too empty and cold for his liking. And yet, here he was, still battling the same demons that his drinking couldn't make go away. With a quick hand, he dismisses the kids, who by this point had contacted their parents, and returned to the body.

They will probably process him as a _John Doe_, but Donovan knew exactly who he was, even after all these years. Jackie Boy Fitzgerald, or just Fritz to the boys, was the first one to turn on his boss when combined forces of I-1 and Interpol started getting close. He was an easy nut to crack and his employers knew it, hence why he was never trusted with the most important information, but he was still a started the ball rolling and once his intel ran dry, we tossed him into the witness protection program. Obviously, that wasn't enough to keep him safe, even after all this time.

"What are you thinking, Donovan?"

The voice snapped him back to reality. "I'm not liking this, Schmidt. Five bodies, same M.O., all connected to that damn case." He sighed once again, watching as Theon's father shook the boy a few times, before pulling him in for a hug. "We're gonna need the usual players once again. Baxter, Bannon, both McCalls, Chisholm-"

"The McCalls are dead," Schmidt replied flatly. "Bannon's been on babysitting duty for almost a decade and Baxter is retired."

"And Chisholm?"

"Missing...believed dead."

The string of obscenities that left his mouth startled the teens that had just started to calm down and brought all eyes to him, much to his cringe. He wasn't known for losing his cool; his stone cold personality preceded him, but this case was his trigger, so to speak. He raised his hand, sputtered out an apology, and put his head down on the fence keeping him from the cliff that lead to a nice drop into the valley of Williamsport.

At least if his world was going to spiral out of control, he was getting an amazing view beforehand.

"We need to get Interpol and I-1 back together," his hissed, leading Schmidt to nod in response. "Get anyone we can in on this or we are all dead. For all we know, Baxter is next and Bannon...he'll be hit harder than any of us."

"Bannon's been with the Quests for years now," Schmidt reminds him, moving closer as to not let those around them hear their conversation. "He cracked not long after this case, so it was only a matter of time before I-1 found someone to pawn him off on."

Donovan knew that Bannon's demotion from the top of I-1's agent pool wasn't just some pity job tossed his way after a few bad calls on the field, but was just what was needed before they found him running through the streets naked and waving a gun or worse, with that gun in his mouth and note near by. While this case had been the nail on the coffin for Donovan's family, this was the beginning of the end of Bannon's and everyone knew it. Although they tried to work things out, some things just weren't meant to be and Race Bannon needed to return to a simple life, one that could include his young daughter. The Quest job gave him exactly that.

"At least if Fritz had to go, he got a nice view before he went."

Williamsport, a large town in Central Pennsylvania, was laid out in the valley below them, completely unaware of the murder that has just been discovered. In the distance, the red and green lights of the famous Genetti Hotel acted as a beacon for the town, one of the few draws this place seemed to have, outside of hosting the Little League World Series every year. Otherwise, this was nothing more than another forgettable, small town between Pittsburgh and Philadelphia. Of course, this brought up yet another issue in this case.

Why here?

From all accounts, Fritz was relocated to the west coast, in order to distance him from the usual players in the game, living it up in some small town in Oregon. As far as the bureau knew, he was living his life and soaking in the legalization of marijuana and women, not leaving the safety of his new life to return to the old one that nearly saw him killed. Now, he is just another breadcrumb left behind by a madman on a mission.

Bannon. He needs to be warned.


	2. Prologue pt 2

_**Sins of the Past**_

"_The past is just a story we tell." _

_-Krysten Ritter_

**Prologue Pt. 2**

_**Small Sacrifices**_

**Location: **Adare, County Limerick, Ireland

**Date: **July 7, 2004

**Time: **19:36 GMT

**Weather: **Cloudy, rain expected later in the night

"Cheers to another successful team up!"

"_Slainte!" _

"_Hoo-rah!" _

The air was heavy with cigar smoke and the smell of expensive whiskey, seeping into every pore on their bodies. Grown men once at odds with each other hugged it out, while others that have worked with each other for years simply raised a glass to each other and nodded, no words need spoken between them. Paddy Thatcher's Pub was lively tonight, and it was for good reason.

Cillian Riordan was no longer a threat to anyone.

Putting an end to the international arms dealer and human trafficking aficionado was no easy task, especially one doused in such secrecy. A small few had actually seen the man known only as _Neit,_ to the point that no actual photos had ever surfaced. To most, he was a ghost, or even an invention of Irish Nationalists, looking to throw those in Interpol off of their scent. However, to the small group that spent the better part of a decade following him, he was all too real. Too much had been lost for them to ever stop searching the mist for him and now, their journey was over.

"To Declan O'Houlihan!"

"And Marcus Hogarth!"

"John Chisholm!"

"Hugh Sullivan!"

"Here, here!"

"To Charlie McCall!" The room fell silent, losing the once jubilant spirit that had taken over the usually somber pub. A man at the bar shed a few silent tears, while others tipped their hats in respect. "Without her, none of this would be possible!"

More drinks were poured and hours ticked away as the men told stories of the one lady with the stones to infiltrate the inner circle of Riordan, gaining his trust. Some spoke of her bravery; of times she had saved them from a certain death, others spoke of her brilliant mind and kind words, but mostly of her fierce friendship and loyalty to her fellow man. The death of her father in the prime of his life steered her towards this case, as he was an early victim of Riordan's cruelty, and she was more than determined to see it through to the end.

In the end, Charlie McCall got her wish.

It was her murder that finally put him into Interpol's custody, putting an end to the man that likened himself to the Irish God of War. They were even kind enough to drop him into a hole he could never crawl out of, when most wanted a swift bullet in the back of the head and left in a shallow ditch somewhere. From there, his people were each found and tried, with a few even testifying against him for a lighter sentence, although most of them met there end in shady ways while waiting out their time in cushier cells.

Even from hell itself, _Neit _was able to find them.

* * *

He had wanted to be there while they celebrated, although he wasn't much of a drinking man. Even if he had been, he wasn't sure he was ready to let himself become that vulnerable, not just yet. Just the thought of not having her in his life was enough of a reason to lose himself and he didn't need any firewater to push him over the edge. No, he was liable to do just about anything if given the chance to let it all out.

Instead, he suffers in silence.

If any good had come from this mission, it was the fact that it knocked some sense into him and sent him on the path back home to his family. His marriage had been on the rocks before Interpol drug him into their mess and leaving on his daughter's first birthday had sent his wife into a tizzy, throwing words like _trial separation _and _child custody_ at him like daggers. She told him to move on, to forget them, just as he always did while he was away. What she didn't know was that they were the ones that kept him going every time he went away and without them, he was nothing. They were the light inside the darkness that I-1 forces into their people. He didn't care that the couples therapist they barely had the chance to see together told them to try seeing other people, he just wanted to make things right between them.

Sleep was like a cold mistress, barely there when he needed her the most. His body laid damp and sore in a bed too large and empty, his mind over five thousand or so miles away. The call of their scarcely used apartment beckoned to him, begging him to return to the place his small family once called home. If he could just get a few hours of sleep, he could take a flight back home. He needed to see his daughter's toothy smile, he needed to hug his beloved wife.

He played with the ring hanging from a chain around his neck until his body gave in.

* * *

The apartment was mostly empty.

Gone was the stuffed hippo that his daughter refused to relinquish from a small shop in London and the pictures that lined their fireplace. In the spot where his daughter's crib once stood, now sat an apology letter and divorce papers, already signed by her. All that remained was the coffee table they bought when they first got together and his tattered, beat up chair from his old bachelor pad days. That, and the memories. Everything he worked so hard to give them was all gone.

He never should have came back.

His thoughts soon fell to his only child, his little_ Ponchita_. He wondered what exactly she was doing, if she even missed him. She looked so much like her mother and was smart, just as she was. There was little of him in her so far and he was always thankful for that. Little chance of her following in his footsteps and ruining her own family, just as he had. He silently wished Charlie could have met her, after all those hours he talked her ear off about her, but that was just one more thing he would never get to see and he couldn't help but blame himself.

With a sigh, he collapsed on the chair and pulled out a package from his carry on bag. After a few rips, the packaging was no more and he pulled out a large, redheaded doll, handmade, with a beautifully designed green dress. Charlie had helped him pick it out, a peace offering for missing her big day all those months ago. It took everything in him not to tear it apart, to burn it, damage it beyond repair until he didn't have to look at it. But alas, he couldn't...it was all he had left now.

For two days, he only left that chair to go to the bathroom. His calls went unanswered, as did the knocks on the door, begging him to let his friends in. News traveled fast among the wives of his fellow agents and they forced their husbands to check on him, if only for Estella's sake. By the third day, he forced himself to shower and put together a meal fit for the loser he believed he was; expired beans and box stuffing. Estella was never much of a cook, but even her burnt Thanksgiving dinner was a masterpiece compared to what he was forcing himself to eat.

After a week he was able to sign the papers, and after another, send them to her lawyer. Within a month he was infiltrating the next world threat, coldly gunning down anyone that got in his way. A few years later, he was brought up on disciplinary charges stemming from a few bad calls during the Panagua case that ended with Argus Grimm and his family losing their lives in a fiery crash. In between the bad, he tried to make things work again with Estella, for Jessica's sake more than anything, but they knew there was nothing between them any longer. Trips down south became longer, communication devices always seemed to be mysteriously unreliable when younger men joined her dig sites. He was no saint himself, as he found himself in bed with Jade Kenyon of all people, as he seemed to enjoy mixing business with pleasure. It wouldn't be the first time and certainly not the last.

Hurting each other seemed to be what they were good at.

Before long he found himself dumped onto the doorstep of the Quest family, fresh off of the murder of Dr. Rachel Quest at the hands of her husband's rival, the evil Dr. Zin. To his credit, Dr. Quest refused to be of any service to the United States Government until the health and safety of his only son, and he knew that Race was the man for the job. A few months later they found whom they believed to be an orphaned beggar child in Bangalore and became another member of the family. Within the year, Jessie was rounded out the team, as she was in dire need of a more stable environment and, somehow, they were just what the young girl needed.

* * *

He almost didn't take that phone call.

There were a lot of people he was more than happy to leave in the past, one of which being Peter Donovan. It was a chapter he closed a long time ago, never to be brought to the surface. It was still a raw nerve and the call was like a slap to the face. All of that changed as he heard the name whispered into the phone, almost as if they would be his last words.

_Neit. _

No.

"Where do you want to meet?"


End file.
